The Exchange: After The Firm

Adheem Barakat had plenty to crow about but remained silent. He had something far more valuable: three Libyan soldiers. And he knew exactly what to do with them.

Chapter 29

The Scully & Pershing office in London was in the heart of Canary Wharf, the modern business district on the Thames. Similar in ways to lower Manhattan, the area was filling up with a dazzling collection of soaring skyscrapers, no two even remotely alike. London and New York were slugging it out to be the financial center of the world, and for the moment the Brits were winning because of oil. The Arabs felt more welcome in the U.K. and parked their billions there.

Scully, with a hundred lawyers, leased the top third of an outlandish structure designed along the lines of a vertical torpedo. Critics and purists hated the building. Its Chinese owner was crying all the way to the bank. Every square foot had been leased for years and “the Torpedo” was printing money.

Mitch had been there many times, and on each visit he always stopped in the canyon-like lobby and smiled. He never wanted to forget the first time, eleven years earlier, when he walked through the doors and gazed upward. He and Abby had lived for three years in Cortona, Italy, then two years in London. They had made the decision to rejoin reality, stop drifting, put down some roots, and start a family. With considerable effort, he had managed to obtain a thirty-minute interview for an associate’s position, a mere courtesy that would not have been possible without the law degree from Harvard. Two longer interviews followed, and at the age of thirty he began his legal career for the second time.

The nostalgia came and went. He had more important matters at hand. He rode the elevator to the thirtieth floor, stepped off, and was immediately greeted by armed security guards who meant business. They demanded his briefcase, cell phone, and any other metallic items. He asked if he could keep his shoes and no one laughed. He explained that he was a partner in the firm and one of them said, “Yes sir, thank you sir, now move along.” He was scanned by a new machine that blocked the hallway, and when no weapons or bombs were found he was released without being frisked. Hustling away, he shrugged it off and knew that in all the remaining Scully offices around the world the lawyers, secretaries, paralegals, clerks, and couriers were being inspected. The firm could not afford another bombing.

He met Riley Casey, the managing partner, who led him to a small conference room where Sir Simon Croome was enjoying a splendid breakfast. He did not stand or say hello, nor did he stop eating. With his white linen napkin he sort of waved at the chairs across the table and said, “Please have a seat.”

Sir Simon had served in Parliament as a young man, spent thirty years on the bench at the High Court, advised a handful of prime ministers, and was a close friend to the current solicitor general. In his golden years he had been recruited by Scully to serve as “of counsel,” a title that gave him an impressive office, a secretary, an expense account, and only a client or two to fool with. The firm paid him a hundred thousand pounds a year for his name and connections and allowed him, at eighty-two, to hang around, primarily for breakfast and lunch.

Mitch declined the offer of food but said yes to strong coffee, which he drank as he and Riley waited for Sir Simon to finish chewing and swallow. Scrambled eggs, link sausage, dark toast, a cup of tea, and a small glass of what appeared to be champagne.

The life of a legend who knew the right people.

Mitch had not seen the old guy in at least five years and was sad to see he was aging badly. And he was quite plump.

“The way I see it, Mitch, is that you have a fine mess on your hands.” Simon thought himself funny and laughed too hard. Mitch and Riley were obliged to play along.

“I spoke with Jack Ruch last night, at length, and he filled in the blanks. Good chap.” He shoveled in another bite of sausage. Mitch and Riley nodded along, confirming that Jack Ruch was indeed a good chap.

“The way I see it, the key here is the Colonel. Sure, he’s unstable, always has been, but I do not believe for a moment he was involved in the abduction of Giovanna. I’m quite fond of her, you know, and I go back decades with her father. A real prince.”

More nods to confirm that Luca was indeed a real prince.

“The way I see it, Gaddafi desperately wants to deliver the hostage. He’ll be the hero, of course, something he craves as a megalomaniac. Keep in mind, though, Mitch, that we have something he doesn’t. We have contact with the terrorists. We don’t know who they are, and may never know, but they’ve come to us, not him.”

“So we lean on Gaddafi?” Mitch asked.